


Diplomacy Happens at Night

by Esteliel



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Breathplay, Hate Sex, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Snowed In, Yuleporn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-07 10:37:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5453621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The quarrel would have lasted long into the night, had not at that moment Thomas Jefferson decided that he cherished his rest more than his hatred of the man in his bed, and employed the rather unorthodox method of keeping Alexander Hamilton from arguing by kissing him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diplomacy Happens at Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Thanks so much to Brigdh for beta-reading!

Martha Washington once said that the second-worst moment of her life occurred when she was forced to harbor Jefferson as a guest, the worst being her husband's death.

Alexander Hamilton, whose wife was of good health and would indeed outlive him by many years, could think of no worse moment in his life than the present on this cold evening of January 15, 1791, which had dawned equally cold and then commenced to bless them with enough snow to make all the streets impassable. He was stuck sharing a carriage with Thomas Jefferson, Secretary of State, clad in a purple coat with gold buttons and a waterfall of white ruffles at his throat, and the most annoying smirk known to man on his face as he regaled him with complaints about Alexander's latest scheme to make Jefferson's life living hell.

Alexander Hamilton's primary objective was the new Treaty of Commerce with France he had been contemplating; as on most occasions, ruffling Jefferson's feathers had only come as a very welcome windfall. 

Of course, nature is rarely satisfied with man proclaiming that the worst has come to pass, and in an attempt to teach him some humility—or so Alexander was certain, for he could imagine no other cause for an act so dire and horrific that the shock held him frozen for nearly a heartbeat before he begun to argue heatedly with the innkeeper—he was told that the inn where they had been forced to halt for the night was full, that only a single room with a single bed could be procured for them, and that the driver of their carriage was welcome to take shelter in the stable for the night.

When Alexander Hamilton pronounced that Thomas Jefferson was just as welcome to avail himself of a bed in the straw, that declaration ended in feathers ruffled even worse than before, and a bristling Virginian striding angrily up the staircase before him to lay claim to Alexander's bed in an act of unprecedented hostility.

At last, they came to an impasse, facing each other over the not quite pristine linen (a state Alexander was well inclined to overlook for the fact that the window was not drafty, and that a fire had already been started which would soon serve to dry his boots and stockings).

“I shall yield the floor to the Secretary of the Treasury,” Thomas Jefferson declared, showing his teeth in a silent snarl as he drew back the bedding with a flourish. “I will even yield an additional blanket.”

Alexander Hamilton grasped the other corner of the heavy comforter and refused to release it. “I could not possibly presume upon you in such a manner. You shall have the nice, warm spot in front of the fire and the extra blanket, and I will take the cold bed instead.”

“Hah!” Jefferson said, not very eloquently, as Alexander Hamilton was quick to assure him, and then took off his shoes and threw himself upon the bed to laze about in a most demonstrative fashion. Alexander Hamilton might even have called the exact mode of his lazing seductive, if he had not at the same time been busy with his own boots, and then, once those were removed from his stockinged feet, proceeded to throw himself upon the bed in the exact same manner, his echoing “Hah!” forcing an expression of consternation upon Thomas Jefferson's face before, and not without visible resignedness, Jefferson began to mockingly applaud.

“Well done, Mr. Hamilton. Am I to take from all of this that you are loathe to take the spot by the fire I have so generously offered?”

“Mr. Jefferson,” Alexander Hamilton said, smiling amiably through bared teeth, “if you would be so kind as to remove your clothes, and then shut your mouth? It is very cold.”

“There is no need to thank me for my generosity,” Jefferson drawled even as he removed first his coat and then his breeches. “It will be thanks enough if you can manage to spend the night without driving me to madness with that mouth of yours.”

“Oh, here speaks jealousy, for you have never learned the use of yours.” Quickly, Hamilton stripped off his own clothes until only his shirt remained, then burrowed beneath the covers, making certain to draw more than his share towards him.

“If you keep annoying me,” Jefferson said and took hold of the covers to yank them back towards his side of the bed so that Hamilton yelped when his leg was exposed to cold air, “I shall teach you just how well-learned my mouth is.”

“Well-versed to speaking lies, you mean!”

Enraged, Jefferson once more tugged at the bedding until all of Hamilton was uncovered and freezing in the icy room that had not yet been warmed by the fire. With a sound of rage, Hamilton dove beneath the covers to press himself against the body of Thomas Jefferson, which, as he found out after a moment, emanated a very pleasing warmth.

“Will you stop squirming!”

“Will you stop talking!”

They glared at each other, at an impasse until both simultaneously turned their backs on each other with a huff.

“This is without a doubt the worst day in the young life of our nation,” Alexander Hamilton declared. Then, as if to prove to him that it could yet get worse, Jefferson's icy feet found his beneath the blankets—a declaration of war if Alexander Hamilton had ever seen one, and reason enough to challenge his opponent to a duel in at least five different states, including New Jersey. Enraged, Hamilton endeavored to meet this provocation with the only answer it deserved and dove beneath the covers once more to thrust his cold hands beneath Jefferson's shirt to warm them on his chest. The sound of instinctive horror that escaped Jefferson was rather gratifying, and Hamilton allowed his fingers to spread. The act was more awkward than he had initially considered in his admittedly rather spontaneous plan of attack. And yet, Jefferson was pleasantly warm, and if he was forced to share his bed with the man, could he not at least demand that Jefferson pull his weight in providing warmth to his frozen limbs?

“What the fuck,” Jefferson said, once more displaying a rather startling lack of eloquence in his outrage. Then Hamilton's cold fingers brushed a nipple, and the undignified sound that escaped Jefferson could only be described as a yelp.

“Very eloquent, Thomas,” Alexander Hamilton said and searched out the erect nipple once more, with the immediate result of another yelp. This was rather satisfying. Moreover, he discovered, this was in fact a very convenient way to get warm. With a content look, he spread his fingers again to warm them on Jefferson's chest. Who would have thought that one day the man would prove useful after all? He was just about to begrudgingly tell him so, for he was nothing if not honest, but then Jefferson tried to squirm away again, and in the process allowed cold air to invade the bubble of warmth they had created beneath the blanket.

“Stop that!” Hamilton frowned at the way Jefferson repeated that yelp when he shoved his cold hands beneath his shirt once more. Then, with the single-minded focus that had so often led him to victory on the battlefield, he boldly pushed up the shirt to replace his fingers with his mouth, licking at the nipple until Jefferson squirmed beneath him.

There was no yelp this time, Hamilton noted with disappointment, but a rather vocal moan instead. Encouraged, he used his teeth, rasping over the erect nipple until Jefferson arched up beneath him with a cry.

Hamilton used this chance to shove his cold hands beneath Jefferson's back, which he found was indeed rather cozy. He gave the nipple another experimental lick. Another moan followed, and he tucked that information away, his curiosity satisfied.

When he looked up once more, he found Jefferson staring at him with a new intensity. There was something like horror on his face, but also the focused need Hamilton had last seen him display when it came to the topic of exports and the regulation thereof.

“So I take it we're doing this,” Jefferson said, and Alexander Hamilton ground himself against the rather unmissable proof of the man's arousal just to prove to him the utter imbecility of such a question.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Hamilton responded, having indeed come to the same conclusion as Thomas Jefferson moments earlier, and, moreover, deciding that if such a thing were to come to pass it would be unconscionable to allow his adversary to take the reins in the matter.

Again he ground against Jefferson, effectively keeping the man from arguing with him further, and for a moment, the act was pleasant enough: warmth suffused him, his own prick hard against his belly, throbbing with need every time he rubbed against Jefferson. Perhaps the task could be brought to an end in such a way. Jefferson did not seem averse at all; indeed, he was groaning again now, eyes slitted with pleasure as his legs spread to allow Hamilton to settle between them more easily.

Perhaps, Hamilton thought, his throat suddenly dry, perhaps Jefferson could be presumed upon to oblige in a further way, and be paid for such service in the warmth their bodies would generate beneath the blankets—enough to see them through this cold night.

Jefferson's hands came to settle on his hips, then pushed up his shirt. At first, Hamilton gave Jefferson an arch look at the impunity, but then Jefferson pulled him forward again, his fingers digging hard enough into his skin to leave bruises, and Hamilton gasped as his prick slid along Jefferson's.

“Fuck,” he said and thrust against him again, biting back a moan at the heat and the weight of Jefferson's heavy erection dragging against his own, and Jefferson laughed at him.

“My dear Secretary of the Treasury,” he said, and Hamilton would have given him another icy look if the man's hands hadn't chosen that exact moment to settle on his ass and grab his buttocks to pull him closer, “I bemoan your lack of eloquence in such a situation.”

“Yeah?” Alexander Hamilton said, barely able to keep from writhing as Jefferson's fingers kneaded his ass. “Then bemoan this.” He wrapped his hand around their pricks, working them together before Jefferson could get any further ideas, and for the next few minutes, Jefferson was indeed too busy moaning and arching beneath him as he kept stroking to keep talking.

It was, Hamilton mused—intrigued despite himself—perhaps the only reliable way ever discovered to make this man shut up. He wondered idly whether it could be employed in some way on the Congress floor, when one of Jefferson's hands trailed up his chest instead, pinching his nipple so hard that Hamilton cried out and tightened his hand in revenge, all thoughts of Congress forgotten as Jefferson' cock throbbed against his own. Then their mingled spend came spilling over his fingers, dripping thick and hot from his knuckles onto Jefferson's heaving chest.

For a long moment, there was silence. Hamilton kept idly stroking them, pleased to discover that Thomas Jefferson, usually so formidable, would shudder and groan when he pressed the pad of his thumb to a spot beneath the fleshy ridge of the head of his prick. Certainly there had to be a way to make use of so advantageous a discovery in the future?

“Alright, alright. Let's pretend this never happened and sleep.” Jefferson at last wriggled out of his grasp and glared at him, and Hamilton huffed with weary indignation before he used Jefferson's shirt to wipe his hand clean.

“What the— aww, man! Really?” Jefferson stared at him with a look of mingled betrayal and disgust as he began to wriggle once more, a new litany of complaints arising as soon as he discovered that there was no position for him to rest in without the shirt clinging cold and wet with their spend to his skin.

“Yerch,” he said eloquently as he at last pulled it off and threw it out of the bed. Once more Hamilton made an enraged sound as the act allowed cold air to invade. Then, swifter than he had thought the man capable of, Jefferson had taken hold of Hamilton’s shirt and stripped it from him while Hamilton struggled weakly, for he had no desire to upset the precarious balance of the blanket spread over them, or the air beneath that had been warmed by their labor.

“I hate you,” he said, with the same conviction with which he had once penned fifty-one anonymous essays on the merits of the Constitution, and Jefferson gave him a smile that was all teeth as he pulled him close.

“I assure you, the hatred is all mine. Now be silent and keep me warm.”

“I consented to share this bed with you; it is _your_ duty to keep _me_ warm tonight—”

The quarrel would have lasted long into the night, had not at that moment Thomas Jefferson decided that he cherished his rest more than his hatred of the man in his bed, and employed the rather unorthodox method of keeping Alexander Hamilton from arguing by kissing him.

This endeavor proved so satisfactory that in a silent, mutual agreement the quarrel between them continued with only the weapons of tongues and lips and teeth until it was past midnight, and both opponents, having so to say fired their shot into the air, came to an uneasy truce curled against each other.

***

The morning dawned cold and clear. Outside, the streets and fields were covered by a pristine white undisturbed as of yet by footsteps or carriages. Inside the small room, the fire that had barely kept the room warm during the night had gone out, and after a long dispute concerning whose responsibility it was to add more wood to the fire or whether there was a moral right to demand of one's bed partner to dress and apprehend a servant to see to the relighting of the fire, Thomas Jefferson had at last employed the tried and true method of interrupting the string of arguments escaping the Secretary of the Treasury's mouth by closing his mouth with a kiss—which, once more, had led to further complications.

“I am going to blow and/or fuck you,” Thomas Jefferson enunciated through his teeth as he stroked Hamilton's cock. It was very hot in his hand. “Because I hate you, and you will remember that it is only with vengeance in mind.”

Alexander Hamilton opened his mouth. Jefferson rubbed the pad of his finger against the small slit at the tip of his prick from which fluid was already leaking copiously, and then smoothed it down the base of his shaft, his thumb teasing along the throbbing vein. All that escaped Hamilton was a broken moan, and Jefferson gave him a smug look in return.

“I am glad we are in agreement, then.”

When Jefferson bent down to slowly swirl his tongue around the flushed head, Hamilton managed another groan. His hands came up to clench in Jefferson's hair, but Jefferson refused to be hurried along. Leisurely, he licked around the crown again, lapping up the next bead of fluid, and then licked down to the base of Hamilton's prick. Hamilton was still silent save for his gasped moans, which was an entirely new experience for Jefferson, and one he thought not disagreeable at all.

When he brushed his slick thumb against Hamilton's balls, Hamilton's prick jerked in his hand. Curious, he repeated the touch just a little more firmly, stroking the balls in their pouch until Hamilton groaned his name, a long string of fluid dripping from the tip of his cock to his belly, and at that Thomas Jefferson smirked and dove down to close his mouth around him.

Hamilton was thick and hot in his mouth, throbbing on his tongue with need as he hollowed his cheeks and sucked him with single-minded focus. The fingers in his hair tightened until it was almost painful, but that only spurred him on; he drew back until only the head was in his mouth and flicked his tongue against the small slit again and Hamilton's hips jerked beneath him.

“Panting for it. Like I've always said.”

Jefferson smirked at Hamilton's muffled sound of rage. In answer, he tightened his fingers around Hamilton's balls, warm and vulnerable in his hand, and returned to licking at the column of hard flesh until Hamilton strained towards him with pained gasps, his balls taut and full and still tightly enclosed in Jefferson's hand. No, this wasn't bad at all, Jefferson thought as he sucked lightly at the spot below the ridge, more fluid welling up and dribbling onto Hamilton's stomach. Who'd have thought it would be so easy to deal with the man once you had his balls in your hand?

“I'll let go of your balls now,” he said at last, “and if you come, I'm not gonna give you what we both know you're panting for.”

“I hate you,” Hamilton proclaimed resentfully, and Jefferson grinned and blew warm air against the straining cock before him.

“Yeah, right.”

Alexander Hamilton did in fact possess enough self-control to keep from climaxing as he was released, which caused Jefferson to raise an approving brow.

“Now I believe you have been trying to impress me with the skills of your mouth for too many years to count—”

“Oh, shut up,” Hamilton muttered, flushed and breathless and for the first time that Thomas Jefferson had witnessed, abandoning an argument by leaning forward and sucking Jefferson's prick deep into his mouth.

“My God,” Jefferson groaned with delight, and at Hamilton's muffled try at a response, gripped his hair to hold him in place as he pushed in even deeper. The man _was_ skilled with his mouth, he could not help but begrudgingly observe, sliding deeper over the heat of his tongue until he felt Hamilton's throat swallow around him.

If he had known just how satisfying it could be to shut the man up for good, he might have endeavored to try this strategic approach years earlier.

“Be a dear and get me nice and wet,” he said, one hand trailing down to lightly rest against Hamilton's throat. Perhaps it was a threat—it was, considering this was Alexander Hamilton, and he had spent a lot of Congress sessions having pleasant daydreams about throttling him. But as it currently turned out, it was even more pleasant to feel him choke around his dick. Jefferson smirked and tightened his hand a little, just enough to feel Hamilton's struggle as he swallowed desperately around the full girth of him.

“A hypothetical question for the Secretary of the Treasury: what do you like more, being able to breathe or my dick in your mouth?”

It was rather pleasing to for once in his life be met with silence as a response from Hamilton. Jefferson's lips twitched, barely able to contain his satisfaction. He released his grip on his hair, so that the man could draw back if he so desired—although simultaneously, he tightened his hand around his throat, thrusting slowly in and out just for the pleasure of feeling Hamilton struggle and swallow around his prick again and again.

Hamilton had, he noted after a moment, still not drawn back. Well, well. He released his throat with a sigh of regret, rubbing his thumb against the swollen, red lips instead that were open wide around the base of his shaft. Hamilton's eyes were dazed and furious and hungry all at once as they stared up at him, and Jefferson decided that they had wasted enough time already, and that it would not do to dawdle until misfortune might interrupt them.

“Enough.” He pulled back. His prick was aching, flushed with blood and need, trailing glistening strings of saliva from Hamilton's swollen lips. It was quite the sight, and Jefferson almost felt moved to inquire whether Hamilton would agree to sit for a sculptor friend of his so that Jefferson could better commemorate this moment.

Hamilton was panting. Jefferson did not even try to hide his triumph as he pushed him down and crawled over him, pushing his legs up and apart until his glistening prick was rubbing against his hole. Hamilton's belly was slick with the fluid that kept dripping from his cock, and his balls were so tightly drawn up that Jefferson pressed another finger against them, smugly holding Hamilton's eyes as he forced them down a finger's breath while Hamilton groaned resentfully.

“You see, I really hate you the most,” Jefferson ground out as he pushed himself inside. Hamilton moaned and instantly arched against him, his hands clenching around his shoulders, nails drawing burning lines of pain as the man scrambled to pull him even closer. With a hiss, Jefferson buried himself to the hilt with one hard thrust.

“Fuck you,” Hamilton forced out, and Jefferson gasped a laugh against his lips.

“No, the idea is to _fuck you_ ,” he said and then bit those swollen lips until Hamilton gasped and bucked against him. Jefferson thought that he could get used to this experience of finding ever new ways to make Hamilton shut up.

With every thrust, the bed rocked against the wall. Jefferson gritted his teeth as Hamilton kept clawing at his back. “You're gonna come on my cock,” he said, forcing his lips into another furious grin, “and then—”

Alexander Hamilton bit him once more. Jefferson took his revenge by clenching his hand around the prick that jutted heavy and hot between their bodies, squeezing until Hamilton's tongue was in his mouth and he sucked on it, that terrible, genius man effectively silenced for once. In his hand, Hamilton's prick jerked, as forward and uncontrolled as the man himself. Then Hamilton came, thick, wet splashes spilling over his knuckles. Jefferson kept furiously wringing pleasure out of him with stroke after stroke until Hamilton shuddered, the muscles of his stomach contracting as he squirmed while Jefferson kept his hand on him.

“Oops. I won,” he breathed, aglow with satisfaction as he abandoned himself to his own pleasure, moaning into the man's ear even as he spilled himself inside him. Hamilton was glaring at him—but he was still clutching him tightly, nails boring into the skin of his shoulder. It made Jefferson huff laughter against his skin before he finally recollected himself and moved off Hamilton. “Well. That was that. I have to admit, I'm no longer cold.”

Hamilton pushed back the covers, and Jefferson immediately regretted his words when the cold air reached his sweaty skin.

“In that case I'm sure you won't need this.” Hamilton gave him an icy look as he grabbed Jefferson's purple coat to pull it on. “Oops. I won,” he said in a mocking tone that Jefferson was quite certain was entirely unlike the way he himself sounded, and spun in a circle. Jefferson watched him from narrowed eyes. Hamilton's prick was limp, and there was a trail of white fluid spilling down his thigh now. Jefferson thought to point that out—but then Hamilton used the sleeve of his coat to wipe at the pool of come on his stomach, and Jefferson wrinkled his lips in disgust.

“You know, I'm no longer cold either.”

“Because you're wearing my coat,” Jefferson forced out. “Which I hope you're going to clean now. Unless you want me to tell people just what exactly that stain on my sleeve is.”

“Like you'd want people to know how much _you_ were panting for this!” Hamilton turned again and waved his arms in exaggeration. “ _You're gonna come on my cock,_ ” he mocked. “Such eloquence! Why, I believe it would make a most fitting introduction to my address to the—”

“Give me my fucking coat back, Hamilton,” Jefferson said, jaw clenched, “or so help me God, I will—”

“Make me choke on your dick again?” With a smirk, Hamilton spun around once more so that the purple coattails twirled around him.

“Fuck you,” Jefferson said with feeling, and then Hamilton advanced, eyes gleaming with triumph as he crawled towards him up the bed again.

“No, my dear Thomas. Fuck _you_.”


End file.
